Page 8 of Tobias

I scroll through the rest of my schedule for Foxy’s, approving the newest dates that popped up. I love the way this system works. Someone requests a slot, I accept it, then Foxy approves it. She never denies it if we accept it, unless there is a payment issue or something like them being a fucking predator—which has happened. There’s a list of people who are banned from renting from Foxy’s.

When I’m done with that, I go back to my date for tonight and look over his info. Yeah, I’m a bit of a creep. His name isn’t familiar, meaning he’s a new client. And since we’re just going to dinner, I want to know a little about him. So, I copy his name and start plugging it in to different social media sites, hoping for a photo and background info.

I get a hit on Instagram, but his profile is private. All I can see is his profile photo, anddayum. He’s hot. Bit of a pretty boy with light brown hair and blond highlights. He hasgorgeous green eyes, full lips, and a fantastic jaw line. His hair is done up well, he definitelydoesit, which is a good sign. I try not to be an asshole, but I hate meeting up with guys who look like slobs. Some can’t even run a comb through their hair, and I’ve had plenty of guys show up who didn’t brush their teeth. Now, I don’t know anyone’s story, and maybe people struggle with these things, but I’m sorry… I just can’t. I have sympathy for what they’re going through, but come on, people. Let’s at least be presentable for the public eye, especially when you’re out on a date. Men are gross. They’re fucking pigs.

Not getting anything from his name on any other sites, I click off my screen and drop my phone to the bed to stare up at my ceiling. What the hell am I going to do in the meanwhile? I guess I could go for a run. I’ve been slacking on that lately, and before the weather gets too cold, I should probably get going. Begrudgingly, I get out of bed and throw on some compression pants, shorts, a T-shirt and my beanie, tall socks and sneakers. I need to be warm, but not too warm. I get hot easily.

The sun is up, but there are lots of clouds in the sky. They’re a little grey, but don’t look like they’re about to open up. Getting caught in a Seattle downpour has become a normal thing for me, but I try to avoid it as much as possible. Especially this time of year when it’s cold. With fall here, the drizzle is constant and that’s even more annoying.

I make it back to my house just as the drizzle speeds up. I’m panting, with a light sheen of sweat covering my skin. Mylungs are burning, and I really should not forget to go for my daily jog. Especially if I’m going to be out partying so much. I’m feeling the lack of exercise all over. Forty is closer than further away. I need to remember that.

My phone dings as I get ready for a shower. It's just Oliver—one of my friends from Foxy's—checking in. It's been a while since we've hung out, but we should make plans soon.

I take a quick shower, then dig around in my cabinets for something to eat. I hardly keep food in my house, since I’m treated to meals most nights. I have a very open schedule with Foxy’s and during peak season, which is mostly the holidays, I’m booked every night, meaning I get free meals every day. There’s a box of macaroni and cheese that’s fallen over, pushed all the way in the back. I grab it and check the expiration date. Well, let’s just pretend that’s an eleven and not a one…

I open the box to inspect it, and hey, would you look at that? Ten-month-old pasta looks exactly like other pasta. So, I get the water going and make it according to the box. I eat the entire thing and feel fine, then I clean up my mess, toss the dishes into the dishwasher, and make my way to the couch and put on sports highlights. Fucking Lions won again. I shake my head as I throw my feet up to get more comfortable.

My phone dings with a text, so I grab it and see it’s frommy sister.

What are you doing later?

Working. Why?

Mom was asking. Wanted you to come over for dinner.

I roll my eyes as I type out a text. She only ever texts me when she wants something.

You both know dinner isn’t a good time for me.

No time seems to be a good time for you.

With a sigh, I contemplate what to say to her and eventually decide on nothing. I don’t want to argue with her and don’t want to deal with her guilt tripping me—again.

I love her and I love my mother as much as I can, which is the bare minimum. I don’t need them the way they need each other. Molly is even closer to our mother than her husband. Honestly, it’s a little weird, but what the hell do I know? Molly always manages to bring up how different I’ve been since Dad died, and I’m not ready to talk about any part of that situation, which is something she will not accept. Thanksgiving is coming up. I’ll see them then. Or maybe I won’t. Who knows?

When my phone goes off with another text, I glance at it, but don’t open it.

Just make plans to come by and see her soon. You can miss ONE day of work.

I don’t bother answering that one either. There’s no point. I’ll go by when I go by. Isn’t the point of having kids to raise them and let them go? Mom doesn’t know how to let go, even when I have been very clear about her needing to—for more than one reason. Though, I’m pretty sure her unhealthy attachment is all guilt related and nothing more. I keep my attention on the TV for the next couple of hours to keep my mind occupied.

The restaurant we’re going to is one I’ve been to many times. I think the worst part of being a professionaldateis the looks I get from staff. I see theoh, you again?written all over their pinched-up faces. Of course, some of them don’t care, and the place we’re going to tonight has mostly cool staff who ask questions about what I do, and one of them even worked for Foxy part time. He’s since quit, but it was nice to have support rather than judgment. I get what I do isn’t for everyone, and that’s fine, but if you don’t like it, look the other way. I’m not hurting anyone. In fact, I’m doing the opposite. I help a lot of people.

When it’s time to get dressed, I get up and dig through my clothes, trying to decide what to wear. Dressing up for dates is my favorite part of the night. My sister swears she knew Iwas gay since I was a toddler. Said I was too into makeup and looking pretty. Though my makeup days are over, I still love making myself look good, and honestly, I’m damn good at it. Had I started younger, I could have gotten into fashion or modeling, but I’m too old for that now.

I grab my light grey plaid slacks. They’re slim fit, but stretchy and comfortable. I pair it with a white button-down shirt, black belt, and my black Hermes loafers. I put on my all-black, faceless Movado, then head into the bathroom to fix my hair. Normally I go for a messy look, but with this outfit, I part it on the side and comb it over.

I shaved when I was in the shower, making sure the hair on my face is short and neat. I don’t like it gone completely; I just like to have enough visible so you know it’s there intentionally. I pick up my bottle of Black Phantom and spritz myself before grabbing my coat. The car should be here soon. With one more look-over in the mirror, I smile and snap a selfie to post on Instagram. I have quite a bit of followers there, for no reason other than me posting stuff like this and people liking it.

When my car arrives, I get a text. I use the same car service for each date and give them my schedule ahead of time. I’ve never had any issues, which is why I continue to use them. By the time I get out the front door, the driver is already standing by the back door of the car with an umbrella. As soon as I step onto the walkway, he opens it, and I hurry down to get into the car.

“Evening, sir,” he says quickly before shutting the door and getting into the driver’s seat.

“Evening,” I say in response.

I’ve had this driver a few times before. Name’s Allen. He’s a nice guy. Older. Very professional. I’ve had some younger guys who ask too many questions and don’t shut up. This one doesn’t talk much at all, outside of polite pleasantries.

“To The Parrot?” he asks.

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